Blankets and Boxes
by MelWil
Summary: In the aftermath, Tom deals with his demons and his angels. Spoilers for 3.1


**Blankets and Boxes  
Author: MelWil  
Fandom: Spooks (MI5)  
Rating: PG  
Spoilers: Episode 3.1  
Summary: Tom displays symptoms of a troubled mind as he waits for the enemy to appear.  
For the alphabetasoup challenge: R is for Ramshackle**

_**So poorly constructed or kept up that disintegration is likely**_

My name is Tom Quinn.

I find myself repeating it, over and over again, in a hoarse voice that rarely reaches a whisper. I hold on to it, hold it close to me, fearing that if I stop, if I pause, it will run away from me. I can't have that. I won't allow it. My name is all that remains.

Tom Quinn. Tom Quinn.

It used to mean something, you know. They used to mention it at school assemblies: Tom Quinn won three prizes at last weeks races; Tom Quinn was top of his class this term; Tom Quinn was chosen as head boy by his teachers and peers.

I wonder what they would think of Tom Quinn now?

Tom Quinn, dirty and mad. Tom Quinn all hunched up under a smelly old blanket. Watching.

I'm always watching, always scanning the street. You can never know when the enemy is going to appear. You never know when he is going to step out in front of you, never know when he is going to try and take something else away. So you're always watching.

I know who the enemy is now. He has a face. He has a motive. He has a name.

My name is Tom Quinn.

I remember the first day Tom Quinn stepped through the pods and onto the grid. I remember the way people looked at me, the whispers that followed my shadow as I walked away. "He's Peter's boy, you know. Peter Salter's golden boy. They say he's going to be something special. Make sure you remember his name."

But names mean nothing in the service, do they? Not really. They're just letters, tags, useful headers at the tops of computer files. They're just slightly more personal than a set of numbers. Just another way of watching you, following you, tracking you down. Another way of making sure you don't do anything wrong.

I didn't do anything wrong. I was just looking out for myself. Do you understand that? They don't believe me, and I'm sitting here: a dirty, broken man waiting outside a church.

My name is Tom Quinn. Can you hear me? Tom Quinn. My name is Tom Quinn and I am still waiting.

Why am I waiting? For redemption? For someone to polish my tarnished halo and to lift it back into its rightful place? Do I want to regain my position as the golden boy, the poster boy, the hero? Mr MI5?

Am I waiting for revenge?

Joyce set out to destroy me, to strip me of myself and my friends and my job and I never once realised how each thing relied on the others. It was as though I had unwittingly lined up a row of dominoes, just begging him to come and tip the first one over. See them fall – one after another after another. See Tom Quinn collapse.

Did I make it too easy? Was it too easy to destroy Tom Quinn? Did he really knock me down with once quick swipe?

Who is Tom Quinn anyway?

How much do I put in the boxes? Those endless, bloody, identical boxes, filled to the brim with Malcolm's endless, bloody driver's licenses and credit cards and numbers to call in case of emergency. Those endless, bloody boxes with their artfully crumpled litter, and pieces of costumes, and precise titles stuck at an angle on the lid. Those endless bloody boxes with their memories of the dead and those who slipped just out of reach. Everything in their right bloody box.

Maybe I should get Malcolm to make me another box. He can fill it with remnants of myself and make a label – Tom Quinn – to stick on the front. I can keep it in my locker until I need it. Maybe then I'll remember who I'm supposed to be.

My name is Tom Quinn. It says so on the label. Can't you see it? Can't you read?

I can't remember when I lost myself. I can't remember when the old Tom – the race winner, top of the class, head boy – slipped away. I can't find the moment, the split second when I simply stopped being me.

There must have been some clues, some hints, something to explain what was happening. How did I miss them? Did I look away at the wrong moment? Did I just ignore what was happening to me?

I suppose I told myself that it was exciting, like being the lead actor – the star – in an over-sized theatre, where a bad performance would signal my impending death. I filled myself with excitement, with adrenaline, as I swanned around the stage, reluctant to take my final bows. I wasn't ready to take the makeup off.

I told myself I was proud of the work I was doing, that the loss of myself was an easy price to pay for the privilege of being involved in such important work. I told myself that I was vital, irreplaceable. After all, I was saving my country, wasn't I?

My name is Tom Quinn and I am . . .

I don't remember anymore. I'm unable to find a definition, anything beyond too many people dying and long hours being someone I'm not. Do I have to describe myself in the negative? I'm not Matthew Archer. I'm not David Getty. I'm not . . .

I can't find a definition of myself beyond tawdry affairs and cheap hotels.

I can't move beyond the dirt and the grime and the hard ground beneath me. I can't see past the torn clothes and the putrid blanket that covers me, holds me together, protects me.

Tom Quinn. Tom Quinn. Tom Quinn.

What happens when I leave this hell? What happens when I wash away the dirt and the grime and the lingering smell. Does everything change? Do I become myself again? Will I be Tom Quinn, boy wonder, saviour, angel of the British secret security services.

What if I don't?

(Tom Quinn. Tom Quinn. Tom Quinn)

What if I never find myself again? What if I'm a broken empty shell with nothing inside? How will I start again from nothing? What will I put inside?

Winner of races. Top of the class. Head of the school.

Golden boy. Tom Terrific. Angel.

My name is Tom Quinn.


End file.
